Star Wars: Will of Beskar
by Fanofallthethings
Summary: A soldier is reborn into the Star Wars universe as a game character, with the objective to safeguard the galaxy. Loose re-write of Ravager, plot will most likely diverge heavily. Reviews appreciated.


**Chapter One - The End.**

"_Pass me the ammo, ain't afraid to fight! Pass me the ammo, ain't afraid to cry! Pass me the ammo, ain't afraid to die! I do it for my family and I do it for my pride." _I belted out the lyrics to Moonshine Bandits _Pass Me the Ammo_ while my Humvee drove down the desert highway. I was riding shotgun, and therefore had control over the music we played. My M4 sat between my legs, the muzzle aimed past my head at the roof, same as the two other Marines in the back of the vehicle. Ramirez, the driver, had his weapon laid across the dash under the windshield. All four of us were fully kitted out in BDUs, ballistic vests, the works.

"Fuckin' hell man, what is _wrong_ with your music taste?" Jones, the Marine riding behind me asked. We'd been out on patrol for three hours and apparently my weird classic rock, punk, metal, and indie playlist wasn't making me any more loved among my squadmates. Eh. We'd been through the shit together a few times. They'd get over it.

"I'm sorry, did my badass musical taste offend your delicate sensibilities?" I said.

"Damnit, will y'all lay off?" Rawlins drawled. "I'm trying to catch some damn shut-eye in case things go FUBAR again."

I flapped my hand at him, and he grunted and slumped back down, his loosely-fastened helmet tipping down over his eyes and shielding him from the glaring desert sun beating through the windows. Then I cranked up the volume on the music, grinning widely back at Rawlins. I earned myself a middle finger for my trouble, then I turned back to face front. Just in time to watch a rocket hit the ground directly in front of our vehicle.

The blast bounced the front of the Humvee a foot off of the ground, throwing up a massive cloud of dust. Luckily for us, this wasn't the first time we'd come under fire while on patrol, though it was the first time the opening shot had been an RPG blast that nearly took us out then and there. "FUCK!" someone screamed, and a second later we were all bailing out of the damaged car, dragging our rifles with us. Jones and I made it clear of the dust cloud, dropping into a ditch on the right side of the raised roadway. I poked my head out, bracing my rifle on the edge of the embankment and sighting down the AimPoint red dot attached to the top rail of my rifle. There was a turn in the road ahead, skirting around a ridge. Since I didn't see some Afghan goatfucker with an RPG anywhere on the flat area on my side of the road, I figured the rocket probably came from the ridge.

As I watched, a pair of beat-up old pickup trucks came skidding around the curve, one with wooden walls built up around the bed that a group of enemy fighters hung onto, the other with an old Soviet-era DShK machine gun mounted on the back, a terrorist hanging onto the gun. The gun truck, what was normally called a technical, slid to a stop and the machine gun opened up, spraying the other side of the road where I assumed Ramirez and Rawlins had taken cover in another ditch. Behind the technical, the goatfuckers riding the other truck jumped down, turning towards the other ditch as well. I reached back with one arm, smacking Jones in the chest. "Jonesy, set up a crossfire on those bastards while they close in on Ramirez's position. I'm going to take out that damn machine gun," I said.

Jones nodded, then turned and hunkered down as well as he could while still maintaining a firing line across the road. I dashed forward, bent over at the waist to stay as low as possible. I knew it didn't work when bullets started kicking up dust around me, so I wheeled and mimicked what Jones had done, bracing on the wall and trying to minimize my profile. Two of the mujahideen had oriented on me and were running towards me, spraying bullets as they went. Thank God for incompetent amateurs. I responded with two quick bursts of fire, felling them both with a three round burst to each of them that put two holes in their chests and one in each of their heads. Luckily, the machine gunner didn't notice my little firefight over the sound of his own gun and the consistent fire from the other terrorists and the sporadic, aimed shots from my fireteam's positions.

Just as I was close to getting in tight enough to take down the machine gun, another truckload of fighters pulled up. It had been maybe forty-five seconds since the fighting started, and I finally remembered I had access to a communications net. "Fuck!" I shouted, then thumbed the transmit button on the earpiece and microphone that hooked around my neck. "Jonesy, get your ass up here, we've got more shitheads inbound! Anyone called for reinforcements yet?"

I saw Jones start crouch running towards me as I started exchanging fire with the new arrivals, the Dushka keeping the other two pinned. Rawlins came on the net next. "Closest reinforcements are ten minutes out!" he said. "Ramirez took some shrapnel in the leg, he's not walking out of here. We'll have to hold out till the QRF gets here."

"Copy that, sarge," I said. Jones had reached my position, and the two of us were sending single, aimed rounds at the enemies, trying to conserve ammo. We had yet to take casualties, but there were probably twenty of them, plus that machine gun, and possibly more on the way against four of us with very limited ammo. I had half a mag currently loaded, two more in my vest, plus a mag in my Beretta M9 sidearm and two spares. After that I'd be down to my KA-BAR. I only had two grenades, and I intended to save one of those to make sure I wasn't taken alive. No way in hell was I going to wind up a propaganda stunt for those fuckers. We continued sending aimed fire at them, but they sheltered behind their trucks and our damaged Humvee, making a clean shot difficult. As a result there were only five or six enemy corpses strewn across the roadway when I spotted another fighter running between the vehicles with a long tube on his back. "FUCK!" I screamed again, then once again grabbed for the transmit key. "Sarge, RPG inbound! Get the fuck out of there!"

The response came back quickly. "Negative, Gaines, we're pinned here. Take him down."

"Yessir," I said. "Shit, shit, shit, shitshitshitshit. Jones, cover me!" He nodded an affirmative, and I took a second to draw my expendable grenade from my belt, flicking away the pin but holding the paddle in place in my off hand. Then I scrambled up the short embankment, flicking the grenade under the nearest truck as soon as I had my feet. I regripped my rifle in both hands and charged forward, lining up my eye on the red dot as best I could while staying moving as quickly as I could. The grenade detonated just before I reached the truck, rocking it on its wheels and killing the group of fuckers hiding behind it. I skidded to a stop next to a scorched, shredded corpse, dropped to one knee, sighted, and fired. My first round hit the rocketman between the shoulders, the second lower and to the left, and the third smashed its way through his skull. Of course, all three rounds hit just _after_ the grenade left the firing tube. I watched it detonate, momentarily dumbfounded, then scrambled around the truck, putting the tire and wheel well between me and the enemy.

I could hear Jones yelling over the comms. "Sarge! Ramirez! Check in!"

After a moment of allowing him to continue yelling for the other two members of our unit, luckily accompanied by a pause in the fire while the attackers where the others had been reoriented, I cut him off. "Jones, they're gone and we have problems. What've you got for ammo?"

My question seemed to snap him out of the near-panic mode he had been edging towards. Silence reigned for a moment, then he came back. "A mag and a half, a grenade, three for my sidearm, and a smoke round for my M203."

I had a single magazine left for my rifle, my three of 9mil for my pistol, and the grenade I was holding in reserve. "Alright, Jonesy. We're making it out of here. Lay smoke just ahead of me at my call, then shoot anything that comes out of it towards you." A double click over the net indicated he understood, and I rose to a crouch, bracing myself to run. "NOW!" I yelled, then straightened up and bolted before the round even landed. I had taken three steps when the enemy started firing, four when a cloud of smoke billowed up, expelled from the smoke canister Jones had fired. I had aimed myself towards the technical, and I burst out of the smoke and immediately smacked into one of the bastards.

He toppled, landing underneath me. I pushed off to the side, rolling to a crouch and pulling the trigger as soon as I had his head acquired. A perfect doubletap resulted, and then I set off again as the DShK started firing in my direction. My momentum carried me to the truck before it could acquire me. What I hadn't been able to realize in the confusion was that a group of eight of the enemy had fallen back to the technical, apparently anticipating an attack on their firepower. I lifted my rifle, switched the fire selector to full, and hosed them down, screaming.

The bolt clicked on empty with two of the enemy still standing. Empty on my last mag, with two goatfuckers standing five feet away from me with full-auto AK47s. Lack of fire discipline and stupidity saved my life. One of the fighters simply stood there in shock at my sudden attack, while the other hoisted his rifle to his hip and started spraying. As soon as the M4 was empty, I had dropped it and gone for my M9. Just because I was pretty sure I was dead didn't mean I was going to go easy. It cleared its holster at the same time the second fighter opened fire. I felt a tug at the outside of my left thigh, and a sharp pain shot through my left shoulder. My pistol came up, one-handed since my off arm suddenly wasn't responding, and triggered twice. The shots were less accurate due to my single hand, but they both connected, smashing through his chest. I shifted my aim, the adrenaline blocking out the pain I was sure would be coming.

I fired three times, dropping the last guard, then turned and emptied the last eleven rounds (fifteen round magazine and one in the pipe) at the machine gunner. I had no idea how many hit, but he crumpled. I hauled myself up into the truck bed and braced myself against the gun. It had about half a belt of ammunition, and with my arm too messed up to support my sidearm there was no way I was reloading it. So I aimed at the largest concentration of enemies, a decent sized group heading towards the ditch, where Jones was reduced to taking shots with his pistol at the incoming. They had somehow missed my charge and taking of the gun, and so were caught by complete surprise when I opened up, scything down all but a few of their number before the DShK ran out of ammo as well.

There were eight of them left, but I could hear truck engines in the distance over the din of battle. They weren't coming from the direction of our forward operating base. "Blaze of glory time, motherfuckers," I muttered, and crouched in the front of the bed, bracing my gun on the roof of the cab. My wounded arm had enough utility to reach for the transmit key on my comms, but all I felt was destroyed plastic and wiring. "Shit. JONES!" I shouted. "END OF THE LINE! TEN FOR ONE!"

"HOO-RAH!" The shout came back, and then we both opened fire. Three of the bastards jerked and dropped, but the five others all rushed for the trench, figuring their reinforcements would deal with me I guess. I continued firing, to no real purpose. The bullets carried sufficient velocity to kill and maim at much greater range than I was firing from, but the effective range accuracy-wise was well short of where they were, especially considering the conditions I fired under. A few minutes later the shooting from the ditch stopped, and an explosion shortly followed when the jihadis dashed forward. No one walked away.

I had a bullet in the pipe, one in the mag, and fifteen in my last mag. I slumped down against the cab, facing back to where I could hear the enemy coming, pistol resting on my thigh and my last grenade in my wounded hand. Yet another truck came around the bend, and I fired at it twice, then dropped the mag and reloaded one handed and awkwardly. As the truck closed, I saw a hole in the windshield where one round had gone through, but had hit neither driver nor passenger. They all dismounted, cab and bed, and advanced slowly with their rifles raised. These gunmen had the bearing of professionals, or at least having had some actual training. They moved slowly, rifles ready, with the heel to toe gait unique to trained shooters that let you shoot smoothly and accurately on the move. Two of the jihadis, younger and towards the rear of the group, rubbernecked around at the destruction four Marines had wreaked. Twenty-plus dead, one wrecked truck from the grenade I had thrown, another shot to pieces by Ramirez and Rawlins. Then I raised my pistol and resumed firing. The front two caught lead right off the bat, and I winged a third before I ran out of bullets.

Three moved up, past the truck, checking where my friends had fought from. Two came up to the truck, and one hopped up into the bed with me. "_Sakhif kafir_," he muttered, leaning forward and baring his yellowed, rotting teeth at me.

I grinned up at him, pulled my knife from its sheath, and rammed it up under his chin. "Eat shit and die, motherfucker," I growled, then shoved the dying man to one side and reached up with my bad arm, lifting it as high as my wound would allow. The grenade was still clenched in my hand, and as the fucker at the end of the truck watched I dropped it. Into the bed of a truck stacked with ammo crates. The paddle fell separate, and I watched as his eyes widened in shock and fear. Then there was massive noise, a blast of intense pain, and the world went white.

Well, I woke up, which I was _not_ expecting. Even if I did, I was expecting to hurt a lot, which I didn't. That should've been enough to clue me in that something had gone really fucking weird, but hey, I'd just blown myself enough. Cut me some slack.

The thing that _did_ clue me in that something was off was my surroundings. A stone courtyard, with dark cliffs all around. The ground I stood on was carved in a pattern I didn't recognize, but something about all of this was...familiar. That familiarity was confirmed when a soft glow appeared across the courtyard from me and a tall man emerged. He wore light colored robes and a high cloth hat, and a long beard descended from his chin. He seemed to glow from within, the light spilling across the courtyard and increasing the amount of ambient light in the area by an order of magnitude.

I spoke first. "No fucking way," I sputtered.

The figure arched an eyebrow. "You seem to have some idea of who I am," he said, his voice neutral.

"Well, you look like the goddamn Father from the Clone Wars Mortis arc," I said, "but seeing as that's a _cartoon_ that can't be right, now can it?"

He simply smiled and inclined his head in a little bow. "I am he."

"But that means… I'm… I am dead, right?" I said.

He maintained an enigmatic smile. "You are. From a certain point of view," he said.

"Do NOT Obi-Wan me, motherfucker," I snarled. "Am. I. Dead?"

The smile disappeared. "You are dead to your world. In this one you may yet live. The Force has brought you to me, to one of the greatest nexuses of power in the galaxy. If you journey within," here he stepped aside, a gesture causing part of the design to collapse in and reveal a set of stairs spiraling down into the depths of the planet, "you may be reborn into this existence in a manner and time to affect the events of this universe."

"And if I refuse?"

"You die, you proceed to whatever waits beyond in your universe."

"And if I descend I get reborn here?"

"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not."

"I swear-," I began, but he raised a hand, cutting me off.

"I am not, as you put it, Obi-Waning you," he stated. "I simply do not know. The Force acts as it will."

I looked at him for a moment, trying to divine how truthful he was being. I gave up trying to guess the motivations of the millennia-old space-Force-deity thing pretty quickly. "I'm going," I said.

This time he actually bowed, stepping to one side. "Then may the Force be with you."

I strode past him and mounted the stairs. I started down, down into the darkness below the surface. I walked for what felt like forever, and not in the way adrenaline can cause seconds to become hours. Somehow I felt like I spent seconds, years, decades, and centuries descending down those stairs. Finally I reached the bottom, and the second my foot left the stairs light flared from the blackness. After descending the stairs by feel and instinct for so long, the sudden brilliance was blinding, even more so since it came from everywhere and nowhere. The room was all brilliant white, totally featureless other than the blinding existence, no evidence of the stairs I had descended anywhere.

A voice spoke into the void. "**YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO BRING ORDER TO A CHAOTIC GALAXY. YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO BE A WRENCH IN THE WORKS, A GHOST IN THE MACHINE. YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO CHANGE THE COURSE OF A GALAXY BY ANY MEANS YOU DEEM NECESSARY. YOU HAVE ONE OBJECTIVE, SURVIVE, AND ONE RULE, PRESERVE THE GALAXY.**"

I stared blankly ahead, given nothing to look at. "You're shitting me, right?"

"**WE ARE… NOT FAMILIAR WITH THIS COLLOQUIALISM**."

"You expect me to save the goddamn - sorry, Force-damned - galaxy?" I asked. "How the hell would I even go about doing that?"

"**HOWEVER YOU SEE FIT**."

"That's not helpful, you piece of shit. And didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude not to look at someone when you're talking to them?" At my words, I felt a huge, oppressive Force come to bear on me, forcing me to fall to one knee under its weight.

"**YOUR DEFIANCE IS… UNEXPECTED**."

"Well," I grunted, "welcome to - ugh - dealing with Marines."

"**YOU MISUNDERSTAND. I EXPECTED ONE SUCH AS YOURSELF, WITH AN APPRECIATION FOR THE STORIES OF THIS EXISTENCE, TO LEAP AT THIS CHANCE. WHY DO YOU NOT**?"

The pressure let up as the voice continued, and I responded quickly. "Oh, believe me, this is literally a dream come true. But one guy changing the course of the galaxy? You've gotta work with me on this, give me some kind of advantage I can abuse."

"**PERHAPS YOU ARE CORRECT. ALLOW A MOMENT**." The voice went silent for a few moments before coming back. "**YOU SEEM TO HAVE THOUGHT THIS THROUGH BEFORE**." Oh, so it had been going through my head. That's… disturbing. "**YOU WILL BE REBORN AS A 'GAME CHARACTER' AS MANY OF THE STORIES YOU HAVE READ PUT IT. CHARACTER CREATION WILL BEGIN NOW.**"

The room dissolved around me, and suddenly a pale, androgynous human body floated in front of me, unclothed and with no features, facial or otherwise. "Well," I said. "That's fucking weird. What, exactly, am I supposed to do with it?"

"**OPTIONS WILL BE PROVIDED. LET US BEGIN WITH SPECIES. YOU MAY CHOOSE WHICHEVER KNOWN SPECIES YOU LIKE. DETAILS WILL BE PROVIDED UPON YOUR SELECTION.**"

"Any species?"

"**YES.**"

My mind was racing, running through possibilities. That I wanted Force sensitivity was a given, and assuming that in a game some species would have innate Force use while others might force me to spend a skill point or something to pick it up… "Can you list which species are guaranteed to be Force-sensitive?" I asked.

"**There are seven species throughout the galaxy who all may wield the Force in greater or lesser degree: the Sith race, the Rakata, the Zeffo, the Miraluka, the Anzati, the Devaronians, and the Nightsister witches of Dathomir.**"

Well. I wasn't interested in a distinctly non-human race, so the Rakata and the Zeffo were both out. I'm a male and not really interested in swapping genders, so the Nightsisters were out. Miraluka are blind and nearly extinct, and the Devaronians have horns, which for some reason just bothered me, so those two were out. "May I have more detail on the Sith and the Anzati?"

"**The Sith are a powerful race of Force-users, with physical abilities higher than that of humans. They are quite distinctive due to their red skin and cheek tendrils, though these differences are muted if they breed with a Human or near-human species they are genetically compatible with. The Anzati are an extremely long-lived near-human race who use facial tendrils to feed on sapient prey to keep themselves alive. Their appearance is Human, allowing them to blend in most anywhere until they reveal their tendrils to feed. They also have powerful innate telepathic abilities which allow them to hypnotize or otherwise subdue their prey.**"

"I'll go with an Anzat, then," I said. The featureless form in front me flexed and changed, the body mimicking what my own had looked like in life. The form in front of me was a bit below average height, some instinct telling me that it was five foot seven. It was well-muscled, not shredded by any means, but the muscle-to-fat ratio indicated that it was well-exercised. The only real differences between it and my old body was that the skin on this one was grey as opposed to my old tan from living in the desert, the myriad scars I had picked up through life and multiple combat tours were no longer present, and of course it had no face. Yeah, that was weird, but I'd seen worse.

"**If you like you may change the dimensions of your body**."

"It's fine," I said. "Think we could fix the… lack of face? And maybe not make my new skin grey?"

"**Your species dictates your coloring. However…**"

The flesh on the body lightened, going from a grey that reminded me of Darth Sion from KOTOR II to being merely a slightly unhealthy-looking pallor on a Caucasian.

"**You may shape your new face as you like, as well as choose eye and hair coloring**."

"Make the eye color brown and the hair color black," I told it. "No sense in standing out. Start the face with my existing features and I'll tweak it from there." After a few minutes worth of editing, I had it where I wanted it. After all, I had a character editor, so I might as well improve my looks. My new face was pretty much average looking, as I didn't want to stand out any more than I had to. For the plans that were beginning to take shape in my head it would be better to fly below the radar whenever possible. My face had a narrow, Roman nose and a narrow mouth. High cheekbones, a sharp chin, and a small forehead balanced out my face. My eyes were slightly recessed, under moderately heavy eyebrows. The skin, of course, was slightly greyish, but there wasn't anything I could do about that. The only mar on my new face was a patch of white skin on the right side, stretching from the corner of my eye down past the corner of my mouth and to my throat, the location of a bad burn and shrapnel wound I had taken during my second combat tour. That grenade had killed one of my best friends, and I had decided to keep the scar in his memory, even if it was more distinctive than I wanted to really be. Some things are worth it.

"**Please wait while a skill tree is determined and past life experience equivalencies are examined**."

I sat on the floor, twiddling my thumbs and examining my new body, an oddly voyeuristic feeling washing through me as I did so. This whole experience was… interesting to say the least. I probably should have been freaking out, but I felt a curious detachment from emotion. I had better not be turning into a kriffing Jedi. "Hey, Force-presence-thing, why am I not freaking out?" I asked.

"**We are currently suppressing your emotional state to facilitate communication. Skill tree is determined. Would you like emotional suppression to be added as a skill or ability?**"

I thought for a moment. Suppressed emotions could be potentially dangerous, especially since I'd shown certain sociopathic tendencies in my past life. On the other hand, with the ideas forming in my head I might need it, and it would definitely be useful in any combat situations. "Add it as an ability," I said.

"**Very well. You have been awarded the following skills due to experience in you past life:**"

**Blaster Pistol Focus (0/100)**

**Blaster Rifle Expert (0/100)**

**Grenade Focus (0/100)**

**Knife Proficiency (0/100)**

**Light Armor Focus (0/100)**

**Medium Armor Proficiency (0/100)**

**Well Conditioned (0/100)**

**Expert Navigator (0/100)**

**Engineering Novice (0/100)**

**Piloting (Land Vehicles) Adept Pilot (0/100)**

**Adept Sapper (0/100)**

**English Language/Basic (100/100)**

**Diplomacy Novice (0/100)**

**Scrounger Expert (0/100)**

"**You race grants you the following abilities:"**

**Force Sensitivity (? Force Slots)**

**Telepathy (Racial Ability) (0/100)**

**Devour (100/100)**

**Longevity (Near-Immortal)**

The information had appeared, floating in the air as the voice spoke. As I scanned it, I understood most everything, but the one thing I didn't understand made my brow furrow. "What the hell is a Force Slot?" I asked. "And what's with the question marks?"

"**The Force Slot is based off of the spell slot mechanic from the game your memories refer to as 'Dungeons and Dragons'. You will have a limited number of abilities you can use between rests, though you need not wait a long time or sleep to regain slots. They will reset as time passes without using an ability. The question marks exist because your number of slots will be dependent on your age upon your entry into this world.** **You currently have the following non-racial abilities:"**

**Player's Mind (Suppress Emotion) (0/100)**

**Inventory (20kg capacity)**

"**Before you are reborn, you must accept your mandate. We will offer you this in the form of a 'quest', and provide you with a quest log to keep track of your objectives and the rewards for your objectives. We will also offer quests from time to time to assist you or provide you with items or knowledge you will need."**

**Main Quest: Survive**

**Rank: Variable**

Survive the hazards of your new universe.

**Rewards: Continued life**

**Failure Penalty: Death**

**Main Quest: Defender of the Galaxy**

**Rank: SSS**

Protect the galaxy from threat internal and external by whatever means necessary.

**Acceptance Reward: Rebirth**

**Completion Reward: Great power and influence**

**Failure Penalty: Death and dishonor**

"Well shit," I muttered, staring at the quest log floating in front of me. "No pressure or anything."

"**Do you accept these terms?"**

I didn't have to stop to think about it. I wanted this, even if it seemed insane. "I accept."

"**Excellent. Please indicate the time, place, and faction you would like to be reborn into. You must also indicate your age at the time of rebirth."**

I pondered for a moment before answering. "Reborn at eight years old in 44 BBY on Galidraan as a Mandalorian."

"**Are you certain of your choice? You propose to enter an extremely dangerous time for your rebirth."**

"I'm certain," I said.

"**Very well. Rebirth cycle begun. Quest granted. Starting equipment assigned. Relationships assigned. Date located. Processing. Processing complete. Timstream insertion beginning."**

While it spoke, the quest log still floating in the air in front of me updated.

**Main Quest: Survive**

**Rank: Variable**

**Current Rank: S**

Survive the hazards of your new universe.

**Rewards: Continued life**

**Failure Penalty: Death**

**Main Quest: Defender of the Galaxy**

**Rank: SSS**

Protect the galaxy from threat internal and external by whatever means necessary.

**Acceptance Reward: Rebirth**

**Completion Reward: Great power and influence**

**Failure Penalty: Death and dishonor**

**The Battle of Galidraan**

**Rank: S**

Survive the clash between Jedi and Mandalorians that broke the power of the True Mandalorians.

**Optional Objectives: **

Preserve the strength of the Mandalorians.

Prevent Jango Fett from becoming a slave.

Kill five Jedi.

**Reward: Mandalorian heritage and connections, guaranteed level up**

**Optional Objective Rewards:**

Title: Hero of Mandalore

Reputation Gain: Mandalorian

Reputation Loss: Jedi

Mentor: Jango Fett

100 XP

**Failure Penalty: Death**

I swallowed hard, the weight of what I was getting myself into hitting me like a freight train. Then I steeled myself, holding myself straight and ready. I had died once already. At worst I would again. I could work with that. Then I was catapulted head first into the body I had created, still floating in front of me, and my world dissolved into pure agony.

**A/N: Hey guys, welcome to Will of Beskar, my re-write and hopefully improvement on Ravager. Hope you enjoyed the first chapter and that the fighting at the beginning balanced out the exposition dump. Please review and let me know what you think! I still have no editor, so reviews are how I get feedback to try to improve my writing.**


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